


A Lesson in Pride

by shotgunsinlace



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e08 Fromage, Hand Feeding, M/M, Pre-Slash, mentions of Alana Bloom/Will Graham - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 01:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4000576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgunsinlace/pseuds/shotgunsinlace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The companionship he feels now only serves to push that knife deeper, making the dull ache in his chest significantly sharper for reasons he can’t begin to fathom. Or, maybe he can, but doesn’t want to. Namely because admitting that he feels more all right in the presence of his psychiatrist than he’s ever had exchanging a word with the woman he’s wanted to kiss for years is a blow to his pride.</p>
<p>In short, Hannibal gives the term "friends with benefits" a whole new meaning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lesson in Pride

**Author's Note:**

> Rewatching seasons one and two in preparation for season three and all I can do is sit back and daydream about these two _doing something_ of the physical kind. This is also unbeta'd.

_“I kissed Alana Bloom.”_

Of all the greetings Will had practiced during his hour-long drive to Baltimore, this precise one hadn’t been among them. Unsure of why Hannibal had been the first person to come to mind after Alana had walked out his front door, the choice to come visit had been instantaneously made. 

While he holds no answers to the hot soup that is his mental state, Will is certain Hannibal can deliver clinical and objective insight. Although, as proven by the first words out of his mouth when he walks into Hannibal’s house, what Will wants is to vent his frustration. His feelings towards the somewhat rejection Alana expressed are juvenile, considering her words on the matter had long since been stewing in the back of Will’s mind.

Alana is right in them not being right for each other. She wouldn’t stop analyzing in the same way Will wouldn’t stop seeing. Relationships are difficult enough without the added bonus of experiencing her _professional curiosity_ firsthand, this much he knows, but a petulant part of him resents that she won’t allow for a period of trial and error.

“Wanted to kiss her since I met her.” It’s yet another sentence that doesn’t fit well into the conversation they’re having in Hannibal’s kitchen, surrounded by the subtle smell of sugar. “She’s very kissable.”

He watches Hannibal draw a silver bowl from the refrigerator, stirring the contents before approaching the counter. “You waited a long time, which suggests you were kissing her for a reason in addition to wanting to.”

“I heard an animal trapped in my chimney.” Will keeps his eyes on the bread pudding, tasting the words before he speaks them. “I broke through the wall to get it out. Didn’t find anything inside. Alana showed up. She looked at me, maybe her face changed, I don’t know. She knew.”

Months ago he decided he liked Hannibal as his unofficial psychiatrist because there is no judgement behind the still exterior he wears. No lies and no pretenses. Will appreciates the sincerity of their relationship in a way he can appreciate little else. He almost thinks it refreshing.

“What did she know, Will?” Hannibal prompts when he’s gone quiet for too long, gracefully spreading whipped cream over their dessert.

“There wasn’t an animal in my chimney. It was all in my head.” Suddenly, he understands that he can’t resent her at all. “I sleepwalk. I get headaches. I’m hearing things.” The exchange in his home now feels irrelevant. “I feel unstable.”

Finally does Hannibal look up from the plates, having sprinkled chocolate shavings over the dollops of white. 

“That’s why you kissed her. A clutch for balance.” His expression isn’t the same he wears in his office, but neither is it sympathetic. There’s an odd mixture of deep thought and enough curiosity to be grating, but Hannibal diffuses the stray wave of hostility building up within by offering Will his dessert. “You said yourself what you do is not good for you.”

“Thanks,” Will says, taking the heavy plate and setting it down on the counter in front of him with the ghost of a smile. “Unfortunately, I’m good for it.”

He drags his thumb along the warm porcelain of the plate, taking a moment to steady himself when the intrusive thought of the contrast between the temperature outside and in the kitchen springs forth.

Wolf Trap is security in its solitude, but the walls around him now offer safety. Two very different things, he finds, and both of which he needs. Hannibal’s kitchen offers heat when the world outside is frozen in its winter, and the reality of this is more grounding than any kiss he can desperately cling to. It’s cozy here.

Will looks to Hannibal only to find him staring at Will’s hands, still dirty with brick dust and plaster. He curls his fingers and steps away from the counter, self-conscious about his general unkempt and bedraggled state. He’s a mess, but Hannibal doesn’t pity. Hannibal doesn’t dig in order to understand, simply allows Will free reign of his words and actions.

“Are you hurt?”

Will considers brushing it off, stating that it’s just a scratch from frantically pummeling a hole through his wall, but he takes the question for what it’s truly meant to mean. A subtle inquiry with the intention to make him honest, to open him up to Hannibal’s aid.

Flexing his knuckles, Will nods his head once.

The scratches themselves don’t hurt, but his entire body pulsates with phantom aches. He’s tired, his head hurts, he feels feverish, and his skin longs for contact. Alana ignited his long dismissed desire for intimacy, bringing it back with a vengeance that’s left him bereft of peace. He aches, but he accepts it as it being his own fault.

Will blinks, first numb and then curious, when Hannibal takes him by the ends of his fingers and leads him to the sink. He turns on the tap and tests the warmth before holding Will’s hands under the water.

They stand there, unspeaking, for what feels like hours that may just be seconds in actuality. Will no longer knows how to keep track of time.

Hannibal’s thumb stroke the back of his hand the same way Will stroked the edge of the plate, sucking up warmth and enjoying the smoothness of porcelain. While his touch is clinical his eyes are not, regarding the wounds with an open frown that makes Will unsteady.

Without saying a word, Hannibal pulls away to rummage through a drawer by the stove. He takes out a tiny first aid kit and brings it over, laying it open on the countertop before turning off the water and drying Will’s hands with a kitchen towel.

“They’re really not that deep,” Will says, eyes the alcohol swabs Hannibal tears open. The sting is brief but welcomed.

“Something this small, if left unattended, may become a bigger problem.” Once clean, he smears a light amount of antibiotic and bandages him up. “Best to avoid situations one might come to regret due to bouts of pride.”

“You think I’m being prideful?”

“I think,” Hannibal pins the bandage in place, but doesn’t let go of Will’s hand, “that you turn to your pride as a sort of defense mechanism.”

Will laughs a short and dry sound. “This is interesting.”

“And I think Jack Crawford knows this.” He squeezes his hand before changing his hold to Will’s elbow, ushering him towards their cooling desserts. “Knows you pride yourself in your ability, which is why you refused to quit when he gave you the opportunity to. A subtle manipulation.”

“I refused to quit because what I do saves lives.” Will jerks his arm away, mildly affronted. “I don’t take pleasure in doing what I do because I can.”

“Don’t you?” Hannibal imperceptibly raises his eyebrows, pats the stool by the kitchen island to prove a point. “Sit.”

Fisting his hands when a pang of distrust makes itself known, Will hesitates. He looks to the glass doors, the falling snow against the black backdrop of night, and then he looks to Hannibal, standing there with an unending reserve of patience.

Will sits, back stiff and standoffish.

“Pride is, of course, a necessary component for every learning process,” Hannibal says, moving around Will to fetch the plate closest to them. “It stands as a poignant marker in our mistakes, reminding us not to repeat them.”

Taking the spoon in hand, Hannibal breaks off a piece of the bread pudding. The whipped cream has melted, and he takes care of scooping some of it up along with several chocolate shavings.

With the same elegance he exudes while preparing a meal, Hannibal holds the spoon parallel to Will’s mouth and waits.

Appalled by the gesture, Will stares at the offending spoon. It’s easier than glaring at Hannibal.

“There’s a difference,” he defends, knowing that he’s failed the test before it’s even begun. “This is childish.”

“Allowing someone to care for you isn’t childish, and neither is it shameful.” Hannibal doesn’t back down, waiting for Will’s resistance to give way.

“Is this supposed to be an exercise in pride or you caring for me?” Regret is quick to thrash in his chest, the words sounding wounded even to him.

“I care for you a great deal,” Hannibal says, setting the spoon back on the plate and slipping his hands into his pockets. “I thought I had made that clear. You are my friend and I care about your life and well-being.”

Will turns his head to look out into the night, sighing at the admission that sounds a little too sincere for someone as stoic as Hannibal. It sounds just as desperate as Will’s words to Alana before the fireplace.

The realization doesn’t come as loud as he would expect, but the seed of curiosity has been planted in him.

“I would rather not be a clutch,” Hannibal continues, seemingly aware of Will’s thoughts.

Shoulders sagging, Will scratches the back of his head and sighs. “Kissing you probably won’t have the same effect, Dr. Lecter.” He cringes at his own words and the involuntarily flirtation the name carries, and offers Hannibal an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“I have my doubts that I am as kissable as Alana,” Hannibal returns with slight amusement. “However, no one has ever complained before.”

“Yeah, I don’t doubt it.” Traitorous, Will’s mind supplies him with images he doesn’t need. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of you being in a romantic relationship.”

Thoughtfully pursing his lips, Hannibal turns around and walks over to the cabinet where he draws two glasses from. “Relationships are often difficult for me,” he says, lastly reaching for a bottle of wine. “I have affairs.”

“That’s what she said.”

“As it seems, none of us are able to turn off what we do.”

“Wouldn’t hurt to try,” Will says, making no effort of hiding his bitterness. “A relationship, I mean.”

Pouring them a drink, Hannibal nods his agreement. “Intimacy is a basic need for a healthy life. Even those who fear it must choose to either succumb or live on as potentially damaged individuals.”

“Now you’re calling me damaged.”

“On the contrary. You strive for normalcy despite it constantly eluding you.” Setting down the bottle and capping it, Hannibal takes moment before handing Will his glass. “I’m curious if you would take the opportunity were it presented to you. You’ve declined quitting once; would you do it again?”

“Quitting my job or denying normalcy a chance?”

“If not normalcy, then a layer of it.” Hannibal swirls his wine while focusing his attention on the way Will holds his own glass. “You said you feel unstable. Knowing this, would you willingly allow someone into your personal life? Where there are no spaces for veils or secrets?”

Will diverts his sight to the door again, makes note that it’s getting late and the snow doesn’t seem to be letting up.

Part of him wants to lie and say yes, that he is willing if the person in question is capable of dealing with his brand of instability. He doesn’t want a caretaker, he wants someone to share his space with. In fact, he doesn’t even _want_ it, not really. He just likes the idea of it. By the end of it, Will decides that it isn’t worth it.

“Affairs have spaces for veils and secrets?” he says instead.

“Affairs are often impersonal.”

“Get mine, get yours.”

“Often,” Hannibal repeats, pointedly. “But not always.”

They fall into companionable silence, the two of them nursing their drinks as the night carries on.

Will is unsure if it’s easier to speak about nonsensical things such as relationships rather than the monsters that lurk behind his eyelids. It’s a change from the ghostly eyes that haunt his waking dreams, and the phantom blood that usually stains his fingers. But this ache is all him, and not the echo of a killer in need to be brought to justice.

He’s felt deeper pains, sharper ones. This ache in his chest is dull and, quite frankly, annoying. While he does have feelings for Alana, he wouldn’t go as far as calling it love. The rejection hurts, but it isn’t crippling.

The companionship he feels now only serves to push that knife deeper, making the dull ache significantly sharper for reasons he can’t begin to fathom. Or maybe he can but doesn’t want to. Namely because admitting that he feels more _all right_ in the presence of his psychiatrist than he’s ever had exchanging a word with the woman he’s wanted to kiss for years is a blow to his pride.

Tapping a nail against the glass, Will frowns instead of unleashing the hysterical laugh he can feel building in his chest. Of course Hannibal is right about this.

“I don’t want to be rude,” Will says, taking a sip from his wine after a tentative pause. “But can I ask you a personal question?”

Hannibal looks insulted that Will would even have to ask. “Please, feel free to.”

Shifting on the stool and looking at the knot of Hannibal’s paisley tie, Will licks his lips. “Have you ever had an affair with another man?” Unsurprisingly, Hannibal simply nods. “What’s that like?”

“Not as different as you might be expecting,” he says.

Will waits for him to continue and when he doesn’t, he squares off his shoulders. “Expecting?”

“Did your father ever tell you how a relationship with a woman would be like?”

Will scoffs. “No, not really. We didn’t really talk about this kind of stuff. What I learned, I learned from kids at school.”

“I’m not your father.”

The words aren’t sharp, but there’s an underlying tone to them that intrigues Will. There’s an insinuation that begs to be understood, and Will finds himself tripping over thoughts that should be pushed away.

The evidence of their meaning lies in the way Hannibal stands, chest out and shoulders back, hips to one side and head on a slight angle. It’s both arrogance and forwardness. Will doesn’t need to assume his point of view to understand what Hannibal is trying to convey without words, the curve of his mouth speaks loud enough.

“Oh,” is the only sound he can mutter when he puts two and two together.

“Will?”

“Are you…” Will licks his lips, suspicions confirmed when Hannibal steps closer. “Are you propositioning me?” 

“And how did you reach that conclusion?” 

The look of confusion irritates Will, because he knows fully well that Hannibal can keep up with his train of thoughts. “Don’t pretend, Hannibal.”

“I want to hear you say it.” 

Clean and precise, his words almost succeed in standing Will’s hairs on end. “You’re implying I figure it out for myself, with you as an example.”

“Am I?” The coyness in his tone is so foreign Will has trouble reconciling it. He drops it almost instantly, setting down his glass and looking at Will with thinly veiled interest. “It was difficult to ignore the way you looked at me when I saved that man’s life in the ambulance. Unintentional or not, your attraction was near tangible.”

He recalls the scenario with pristine clarity. Will doesn’t know why, but the image has stuck to him since then. “I dream, sometimes.” A deep breath burns his lungs. “Of you putting your hands inside me, rearranging my organs.” He shakes his head, every bit ashamed as he is when he wakes from dark imagery. 

“How does that make you feel?”

“In the dream?” Will smiles wryly. “Excited,” he says, almost whispers it.

“And when you wake?”

Will briefly meets Hannibal’s eyes in search of anything that might put the man off from this. He finds nothing. Decides to be honest. “Aroused.”

It’s Hannibal’s turn to lick his lips, and while Will has seen him do it before, it’s never struck him like this. With no need to hide behind discretion, Hannibal allows his intention to rest exposed to Will.

He takes a step closer and Will looks away, closing his eyes, pulse quick and palms sweaty at the prospect of what may happen next.

At the first contact of heat against his knees, Will involuntarily spreads them, struggling to ignore the embarrassment that bubbles in the pit of his stomach. He isn’t aroused, not yet, but he’s certain that Hannibal needs to do very little to get him going. It’s remarkable how a lifelong belief can shatter with a single, gentle nudge.

A hand on his hip makes Will open his eyes and is briefly confused as to what Hannibal’s doing, until he realizes that he’s only reaching for the plate again.

This time there is no need for shame or wounded pride, he’s forfeited both and laid them at Hannibal’s feet. The many of firsts, Will thinks, as the spoon is once again lifted to his mouth. Still, Hannibal waits, and waits, and waits.

“What would change?” Will asks. The whipped cream is entirely flat by now.

“Nothing.” He’s so close his breath tickles Will’s nose. It smells of wine. “Everything.”

“We would still be two men having conversations.”

“If that’s what you need, then yes.”

Stalling by taking a long and measured breath, Will grips his glass so hard he fears it’ll break. He doesn’t know what else to say, what else to do. What he does know is that taking this bite will leave a mark on their relationship, one that states that he’s opened up more doors for Hannibal than he had ever intended to.

“This stays between us,” he says, soft enough to go missed if not for Hannibal’s complete attention. The last thing he needs is Freddie Lounds getting a load of this.

“Of course.”

Jerkily nodding his head, Will swallows. He parts his lips enough to breath through them, then widens them enough to allow to be fed.

The spoon nudges his bottom lip, asking him to open wider and he does, inviting it inside before closing around it. Hannibal pulls the spoon free and Will chews, savors the sweet richness of the dessert, the way its flavors burst magnificently on his tongue before he swallows.

“It’s delicious,” he says, opening his mouth before Hannibal even leans to cut off another piece. His chest is quivering, and it isn’t until after Hannibal takes the glass away from him that he realizes he’s shaking.

Hannibal simply nods, gracefully, before taking a bite for himself. Will watches, mesmerized at how Hannibal can make something so mundane seem erotic.

Spreading his legs to better accommodate him, Will watches wordlessly as Hannibal steps close enough to feel the heat he emanates. 

They share no other touch, Will’s hands on his own knees and Hannibal’s on the plate and spoon, as he’s fed the rest of the bread pudding with slow and deliberate movements. The feeding is a seduction in and of itself, and much to Will’s surprise, his thoughts are blissfully blank.

“Friends with benefits.” It takes a moment for Will to realize that the words have come out of his own mouth. “How do you benefit from this?”

Hannibal doesn’t answer until Will’s taken the last bite. He cards his fingers through the curls atop Will’s head, softly clutching at the bunch at the bottom of his skull. “Interesting conversations,” he says, bringing his other hand up to run his knuckles along Will’s jaw line. “And lips that are undeniably more kissable than all of those that surround me.”

He hates the quiet gasp the confession gets out of him. “I’ve already been seduced, Doctor.”

“Have you?” The playful lilt of his words earns him a shudder.


End file.
